On Saturday I took The Boy to a competition of various clubs of kids his age. His club was there, too, but not competing. I was there as chauffeur, but also as moral support. The competition was held in a high school gym. We sat on the bleachers. Actual exchange:
TB: I wonder if Madison will be here...
DD: Who?
(TB walks away.)
I spotted him shortly thereafter, sitting next to The Blonde Girl.
I'd been ditched. Not even so much as a "see ya, Dad."
The Blonde Girl has entered our world.
Bless his young heart, TB went for a girl who barely gave him the time of day. She teetered in little heels that I'm guessing she hadn't worn before. TB honed right in on her, fruitlessly.
Happily, the lack of progress didn't seem to faze him much. In the third grade, I'm not even sure what 'progress' would mean.
But he's off to the races now. And all those horrible lessons I had to figure out for myself, he'll have to figure out for himself. In one of nature's cruel tricks, they aren't really transferable. ("When I was your age..." Yawn.)
It's okay, it's even good. I just thought there'd be a little more warning. Something more than being abruptly ditched in the bleachers, anyway.
Apparently not.
Good luck, TB. Afterwards, I'll still be here to drive you home. I won't ditch you. Pay no attention to my smile on the drive home...
